


Sanctuary

by DHW



Series: Sanctuary [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Light BDSM, Mild Kink, dom!Giles, sub!Buffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 17:49:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7448401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy's imploding. Giles thinks he has just the solution to her little problem. </p><p> </p><p>Post Chosen PWP. Written for Summer_of_Giles 2016.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** No angst. Much sex. Little plot. So shameless. Could probably do with a bit of a beta *mumble mumble* DHW is a lazy sod who almost didn’t finish in time *mumble mumble* but never mind. Hopefully it’s not too painful!
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Not mine. They belong to the almighty Joss. I’m just playing in his sandpit. Sad, sad times.

It was a beautiful summer’s day. Buffy felt the warmth of it seep into her bones as she emerged from the taxi, coat in hand. It had been raining when she had left London, water droplets falling from the grey sky in a fine mist that soaked to the bone. But out here, in what Giles had once jokingly referred to as the provinces, there was not a cloud to be seen. Instead of drizzle, the soft light of the afternoon sun greeted her, the air alive with the drone of insects as they drifted along in the warm, country breeze.

Buffy shook her head gently as she shut the car door, trying to clear the mood that had settled upon her during her journey. Her head felt fuzzy, as if filled with cotton wool, still full of the fog of the city and the life she had there. Behind her she heard the growl of the engine as the taxi set off back down the winding country lane, back to civilisation, leaving her alone. With a sigh, she cast her eyes over the wrought-iron gate that blocked her path. It was nestled within a box hedge so large it obscured her view of the house beyond. She placed her hand against the cool metal and pushed. 

It was locked. 

A sudden flash of inspiration lit Buffy’s mind. Questing fingers dug into her handbag and, with a grunt of triumph, she pulled from it a blank cream envelope. It was heavy in her hands, the paper thick and expensive beneath her fingertips. She flipped it over, sliding a shiny, forest-green nail under the flap as she opened it, proceeding to tip its contents into her palm. An old-fashioned key fell from the envelope. It was matte black and incredibly ornate; it the kind of key she doubted would look out of place in a period drama. Attached to the key with a golden thread was a small note. It read: 

_No. 7. Orchard House. Leyford. Gloucestershire._

Below the pristine black handwriting was a seal. The red wax bore the imprint of a lion’s paw holding an apple branch. Giles’ seal, the one carved into the black onyx of his signet ring. 

A small curl of anxiety settled low in her belly at the sight of his mark. A flush of embarrassment coloured her cheeks as she remembered the disaster that had been their last encounter. It had been out of office hours and, as had become somewhat of a habit over the last six months, she had been drinking. Not the casual after work sort of drinking with her Council colleagues, but the lonely oblivion-seeking kind. The kind that created more problems than it solved, leaving her with nothing but a hangover, a stranger in her bed and all the feelings she had been drinking to forget. 

She was self-destructing, and she knew it. As, apparently, had Giles. 

She’d been in one of her dodgier haunts when he’d found her, almost paralytic from cheap wine and even cheaper gin, shamelessly wrapped around a man whose name she doubted she’d remember even if she’d asked. He was warm and male and quite willing, which had been good enough. They had been in the process of getting more intimately acquainted, her head swimming, when she had felt a pair of strong hands take her shoulders in a vice-like grip. Seconds later she had found herself pitched indecorously onto the floor, blinking up at the stern face of her former Watcher. 

She remembered her slurred protestations, but not what she’d actually said. It had just been noise. She’d been too drunk for that sort of clarity, either of speech or recall. She did, however, remember that he had remained silent, glaring down at her, his hands clenched into tight, angry fists at his sides. And, much to her embarrassment, she remembered what she had done next, once she had levered herself up from the dirty nightclub floor. 

She had kissed him. It had been sloppy, drunken, and he hadn’t responded. Instead, he he’d merely waited for her to finish her boozy assault upon his lips, his face an impassive mask. As she’d drawn back, he’d grabbed her hand, halting its quest up the front of his thigh, and dragged her from the club. Without a word he’d parcelled her into the waiting Council car, slammed the door and mumbled something to the driver before stalking off into the night. 

That had been two weeks ago. Buffy hadn’t seen him since, neither at meetings nor in the Council refectory. He was avoiding her and she didn’t blame him. It had been stupid, foolish. A moment of drunken madness that had potentially ruined the bond they had worked so painstakingly to rebuild. It had been three years since Sunnydale and all the badness that had almost torn them apart; three years of tentative forgiveness, of careful friendship and, if she were honest with herself, the distinct possibility of something more. Something she’d no doubt destroyed in her thoughtlessness. But, as much as she had told herself otherwise, deep down, she knew exactly why she’d done it. 

He was Giles. Safe. Dependable. Her knight in somewhat dented armour and she so desperately needed rescuing. 

It wasn’t that her life a bad one, quite the contrary. She had a nice flat in central London, a good job with the new Council, plenty of friends, both old and new. No, on paper, her life was peachy. Only, Buffy felt as though she were about to explode, once again trapped in a life she didn’t really want.

After the activation of the Potentials, Buffy had thought things would be different. And they were, in a way. She was _the_ Slayer no more. Instead she was one of many, _a_ Slayer, the burden now shared across a generation of young women. She’d assumed that it would mean a little more freedom for her; the opportunity to return to College, perhaps, or to have a day or two without encountering something of the supernatural persuasion. The chance to live a somewhat normal life. To be ordinary. 

Only it hadn’t. 

Instead she had found herself more trapped than ever, shoved unwillingly into a position of power and influence within the new Council. Though it had been several years since the bombing, it was still a shadow of its former glory. With so few surviving Watchers and so many Slayers to train, she had been left with little choice. It was almost the same as before, back when she’d been the Chosen One, only now her destiny was all paperwork and politics, the responsibility for every big decision thrust upon her reluctant shoulders. Buffy had been given the role of Director of Slayer Operations. A good job, yes, but not one she cared for. It meant she lived, ate and breathed the Council, her every waking moment consumed by it in one form or another. It was too much.

That was why she drank, why she brought home unsuitable men, why she had kissed Giles: to escape. To be someone else, anyone else, if only for a moment. Someone who didn’t have to be responsible, be in control, make the big decisions. She only hoped that he understood. 

A hope that had buoyed within her as she had walked into her office the day before last and seen the small, cream envelope sitting upon her desk. 

Shaking herself from her reverie, Buffy grasped the large, round knob at the left hand side of the gate. Her fingers shook with the slightest of tremors as she slid the key home into the lock. The levers and gears inside let out a loud clunk as they shifted, the gate swinging open with a creak. Taking a deep breath, Buffy stepped through the entryway and began to make her way down the gravelled pathway towards the house beyond.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn’t what she had expected. 

From the outside, the house looked the very picture of quaint Englishness. All twee and picturesque, with its whitewashed walls and thatched roof. Window boxes full of pretty pink geraniums sat upon the wooden sills, their leaves swaying gently in the breeze. The flowerbeds that surrounded the cottage burst with plants of all shapes and sizes. The air was filled with the low buzz of bumblebees. It was a riot of colour and scent, beautiful in a careless sort of way. 

As she got closer, however, the house began to change. Buffy felt the tingle of magic as she ascended the worn stone steps to the front door. Before her eyes, the cottage became blurry, fuzzy at the edges. It was almost as if it wasn’t there at all, like a mirage, the only thing remaining steadfastly real being the large oak door in front of her. Blinking, Buffy raised her hand to the ornate knocker; a burnished gold lion’s paw resting upon a large orb. As her fingertips brushed against the metal, the door swung open of its own accord, revealing a very real looking hallway beyond. She took a steadying breath, feeling the prickle of magic intensify as she climbed the final step. 

With trepidation, Buffy entered the small hallway, her footsteps muffled by the slightly shabby Persian rug beneath her feet. The walls of the hallway were clad in chestnut-coloured wood panels that rose from the floor to shoulder height, above which were bare walls painted a deep, cherry red. An ornate glass lampshade hung from the centre of the ceiling, emitting a soft yellow glow. There were no windows, only two doors, one to her left and one to her right. They were identical, mirror images of one another, both completely unadorned save for a thin burnished gold handle. With no indication as to where she was to go, Buffy tried the door on the right. It was locked, the handle remaining still beneath her touch. She turned and tried the second door. It opened easily to reveal a large, ornate study. Floor to ceiling bookcases, filled to bursting, adorned three of the four walls, the fourth taken up by a pair of enormous French windows. Beyond she could see the beginnings of a large garden, teeming with colour, the rest of her view obscured by the verdant foliage. In the centre of the room was a large mahogany desk, its top graced with a thin covering of dark green leather. At it sat a very familiar figure, softly illuminated in the golden light of the afternoon sun. Her heart skipped a beat.

Giles. 

Buffy drank in the sight of him lounging gracefully in his chair, his bare feet propped upon the desk, thoroughly absorbed in a book. He was dressed in a deep lavender shirt, sleeves rolled up around his elbows. About his neck hung a navy blue tie that matched the suit jacket carelessly discarded over the back of his chair. He looked more relaxed than she’d ever seen him, none of the tension he usually carried about his shoulders or around his eyes evident. It made him look younger, happier. Buffy shivered, feeling as though she was intruding upon something incredibly private, almost intimate. She took a step back, hoping to leave unnoticed, when he looked up from his book. 

“Good afternoon, Buffy,” he said, a small smile playing at his lips. Setting his book aside, he swung his legs down from their place upon the desk and gestured at the chair in front of him. “Please, take a seat.”

Butterflies fluttered low in her belly as she sank down into the soft green leather. She clasped her hands in her lap, crossing her legs demurely, unaccountably nervous under the weight Giles’ gentle gaze. 

“I got your message,” she said, placing the key he had given her upon his desk. 

“Obviously,” he replied. His tone was mildly sarcastic, but the sting was taken from it by the warmth Buffy saw lingering around his eyes.

“Giles, about before…” she began, wringing her hands as she spoke, her cheeks colouring with embarrassment.

He shook his head, silencing her. “I didn’t invite you here for an apology.”

“Then why did you invite me?”

His lips quirked into a wry smile. “All in good time. Tea?” he said. He gestured at the large china teapot that graced the left-hand side of his mahogany desk. “It’s freshly brewed.” 

Buffy nodded. She watched as, with cat-like grace, he reached for the ornate silver tray on which the tea service sat. The soft clink of fine china filled the air as his pale hands carefully poured the dark steaming liquid into two off-white teacups. He set the pot back on the tray with a soft thud. With a pair of fine silver tongues, he placed a small silver of lemon on each gold-rimmed saucer.

“Would you care for sugar?”

“Please.”

He dropped a single lump of dark brown sugar into the left cup. The tinkle of silver against fine bone china filled the air as he stirred. He tapped the teaspoon against the lip of the cup, placing it upon the saucer as he handed her the tea. 

“Thank you,” said Buffy. A small shiver ran up her spine as his fingers brushed gently against the back of hers, heat pooling between her legs at the sparks his touch created within her. 

She watched from beneath her dark lashes as he took a long draught of his drink, hoping he hadn’t noticed her reaction to his inadvertent caress. It was bad enough that she had kissed him; she wasn’t entirely sure their relationship could withstand the knowledge that, since that night, her feelings towards him had hastened in their drift from friendship to a decidedly less platonic state of affairs. Not when he had already made his disinterest quite clear. 

Buffy shook her head. She dropped the slice of lemon into her cup and brought it to her lips, smiling as the fragrant scent of bergamot teased her senses. She took a small sip, revelling in the sweet, mildly floral flavour of it as it hit her taste buds. It was like nothing she had tasted before, a far cry from his usual offering of overly milky builders’ tea. She hummed softly in appreciation as she took another sip. 

“Rather good, isn’t it?” said Giles, his voice tinged with pleasure. 

“Much better than your usual,” she said in agreement as she set the cup back down upon his desk. “Tastes less like stagnant ditch water.”

Giles chuckled at her response. Buffy felt his hand cover her own and a thrill shot through her. Barely breathing, she watched as he twined his fingers through hers, his thumb rubbing small circles against her skin.

“While there is tea, there is hope,” he said, his smile broadening into a grin at her puzzled look. “Arthur Pinero.”

“If you say so.”

Buffy wondered how long it would be before he took his hand back, and whether she would miss it when it was gone. She felt his hand give hers a gentle squeeze. Her mind went blank, unable to concentrate on anything save the feel of his skin on her own: the calluses on his palm, the soft pads of his fingers, and the heat of his pale flesh. It was electrifying and intense and somewhat unexpected. They had touched before, though infrequently, but it had never elicited quite the same response within her. No. This was new. 

Buffy took a deep breath. She cast her eyes about the room, desperately searching for a distraction. Her gaze fell upon the window behind him and the garden beyond. From her position at his desk, she could see its wisteria-covered pathway winding off into the distance, the purple flowers swaying lazily in the breeze. Between the gaps in the trees wildflowers blossomed, following the path in a riot of colour. White marble statues stood proudly amongst the foliage, half hidden within the swaying leaves. In the distance, she was sure she could see the vague hint of a pond, the water sparkling in the sunlight. It looked almost enchanted. In fact, Buffy was sure it almost certainly was. 

“Beautiful garden, Giles,” said Buffy conversationally, praying she had managed to keep the tremor from her voice. 

“Thank you,” he said, giving her hand another gentle squeeze. “It belonged to my mother. It was a pet project of hers, if you will.”

“Project?”

“Yes. My mother was a rather powerful witch. Most of what you see is the result of some quite complex magic. She built this place shortly before she met my father. It was her sanctuary, as it has become mine.” 

“Neat.”

“Quite.” He smiled at her deliberate understatement. “I’ve been slowly restoring it. It fell somewhat into disrepair after her death, what with my relocation to Sunnydale. I’m afraid it’s rather a shadow of what it was, but you should find it pleasing enough.”

Buffy saw a brief flicker of pain in his green eyes and wondered how much it had cost him to invite her here, to his sanctuary. She felt guilty at her intrusion, however unwitting it had been. She dropped her gaze to their still joined hands as they lapsed back into silence. In her peripheral vision, Buffy could see him watching her, his eyes fixed upon her face in silent deliberation, his expression inscrutable. It made her nervous, made her stomach feel like it was filled with butterflies. 

After five minutes of his careful study, she decided she could stand it no more. Her thoughts had begun to list in a rather unsuitable direction and the feeling in her stomach had intensified, leaving her light-headed and ever so slightly nauseous. Her skin felt feverish to the touch and she was sure she was blushing. 

“So,” she said, breaking the silence. She picked at a loose thread on the front of her dress, embarrassed at her body’s reaction to him.

“So?” he repeated, his tone teasing. “Patience is a virtue, Buffy.”

“And we both know I have few enough of those as it is. So come on, spill. Why did you invite me here?”

Giles stared at her for a moment, carefully considering his response. A look of puzzlement crossed his features. “Why do you do it?”

Buffy frowned at his unexpected reply. “Why do I do what ?”

“The drinking, the men, why?” He unlaced his fingers from hers, turning her hand over so that her knuckles rested gently upon the table. Slowly, he began to trace the fine lines that decorated her palm. “I know you’re not happy, Buffy. In fact, I rather think you haven’t been for some time. I’m merely curious as to why you choose to do what you do.”

“I’m just…” She sighed heavily, running a shaky hand through her hair. As uncomfortable as it made her, he deserved the truth. After her drunken attempt at seduction, she owed him that much at least. “It’s an escape, I suppose.”

“From your duties with the Council?”

She nodded. “The Council, the Slayers, everything. I just… Look, I know it sounds dumb, but what I did… what I do, it helps me get away from everything. Forget I’m me for a bit, you know?”

Giles nodded in understanding. “I know how you feel, Buffy. Truly, I do. However, I’d rather not see you follow in my footsteps, as it were. I fear I learnt enough of a lesson for the both of us on that score.”

Buffy shuddered as she thought of Eyghon, her free hand rising to itch the back of her neck. “No kidding.”

“However, I may have a solution, i-if you’re amenable,” he said, his expression serious. 

“What?” 

“I can help you.” 

“No, I got that. Not a complete dumbass.” Her gaze dropped to her lap as she continued. “Current behaviour notwithstanding. I more meant how?”

“Do you trust me?”

Her eyes snapped to his. “Of course.”

“You want to escape; to lose control, to feel without thinking, without consequences. You want freedom from your responsibilities. I can give you that, the chance to be someone else, for little while at the very least.”

“How?”

Giles took a deep breath, as if to steady himself. “You relinquish that control to me,” he said, loosening his tie. “Mind and body. And in exchange, I give you the chance to simply feel.”

“Ooo, Kinky.”

“If you like.” 

Buffy blinked in surprise. She’d meant it as a joke. He couldn’t possibly be suggesting what she thought, could he? She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. Heat pooled between her thighs at the idea and she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. 

“Y-yes. No. I…” she stammered, a faint blush rising to her cheeks.

Giles held up a hand to silence her. “It doesn’t have to be sexual in nature, Buffy. Not unless you wish it.”

She shook her head. “It’s not that, it just…” Her eyes dropped to her lap. “I- I don’t know.” 

Sex with Giles. Kinky sex with Giles. Buffy felt her brain melt a little at the notion. It wasn’t that she was completely unwilling. She knew perfectly well where they would have ended up had he not parcelled her into that taxi two weeks ago. The thought of him in her bed was not unappealing. Giles was an attractive man. A silver fox, if ever there was one. And it wasn’t even the kinkiness of the suggestion that wigged her; the idea of full and complete surrender was more than a little intriguing. She’d done vanilla to death. It was nice, no questioning that, but over the years it had become so ordinary, run of the mill. Boring, even. Something a little more out there, though… oh yeah, she could get behind that. She felt a pang of arousal at the thought.

No, ‘kinky sex’ and ‘Giles’ were both fine. Better than fine, even. It was the ‘with’ that was the problem. This had the potential to ruin their friendship. Buffy remembered their last few years in Sunnydale; she didn’t think she could go through the pain of losing him again. It was the reason she’d kept such a tight lid on her feelings, fighting every step of the way as they had begun to change into something deeper, darker than simple friendship. Drunken mistake notwithstanding. 

“This doesn’t have to change things between us, Buffy. I am your friend, first and foremost, and I care very deeply for you.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. It was as though he’d read her mind. “What we do here will not affect that. Just think of it as a way to relieve some tension.” 

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” she said, a small frown creasing her brow. “I…” 

“I’m not asking for a relationship. I’m not even asking you to reciprocate,” he said carefully. “I can give you a safe way to escape. The ability to be someone else without the hangover and unwanted houseguest.”

Buffy took a deep breath. This was Giles. Mr. Safe and Dependable. She trusted him with her life, so why not this? She knew he’d meant every word he’d said. He wouldn’t push her, hurt her, or force her into something she didn’t want. And really, what was the harm? They were two consenting adults. Friends, even. Friends who had sex. With each other. In a non-relationship-y sort of way. Simple as that.

Perhaps Giles was right, she thought. Maybe this was just what she needed. 

“Okay,” she said with a firm nod. 

Giles rose from his chair, circling the desk to stand behind her. He placed a hand upon her shoulder.

“Do you understand what I’m asking of you?” he said, his tone serious.

“I think so, yes.” She nodded. “Do you want this? With me?”

“I wouldn’t offer if I felt otherwise. Nor, to be frank, if I suspected you did.” 

“Okay. Yes. I want this.”

Giles reached down beside her and pulled open the left-hand desk drawer. From it he retrieved a small wooden box, the initials R.E.G. carved into the top. Deftly, he popped the catch and opened the lid to reveal a small gold lock, a key, a fine gold chain, and a red ribbon. Giles took the chain and wrapped it around her neck. He snapped the lock shut around the ends, forming a necklace. Smiling gently, he threaded the key onto the length of red ribbon, placed it round his neck and tied the ends together. 

Giles turned to face her. He hooked a finger beneath the chain that hung around her neck, the padlock nestled in the hollow of her throat. “When you wear this, you belong to me. You are to refer to me as ‘Rip’ at all times. I expect you to follow my rules. Any insubordination will result in punishment.” He pinned her with his green gaze, his eyes boring into hers as he spoke. “I will not hurt you. Do you still wish to continue?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her breath catching in her throat. 

“Good. I would like you to choose a name for yourself. When you wear my lock, you are not Buffy Summers, nor the Slayer, just as I am not Rupert Giles, nor your Watcher. You are whoever you wish to be, such is the beauty of escapism.”

“I would like to be Anne.” 

“Very well, Anne. The safe word is foxglove. If you wish to stop, say it and we shall go no further.” He ran a hand through his hair, a small sigh escaping his lips. Slowly, he walked towards the French windows, his bare feet padding softly upon the polished wooden floor. He grasped the golden handle and twisted it. The large glass doors swung open into the garden beyond. “Remove your shoes and follow me.”


	3. Chapter 3

As Buffy followed Giles deep into garden, she began to understand why he considered it his sanctuary. It was so peaceful, so quiet. All around them plants danced in the gentle breeze, filling the air with a heavy floral scent. Thick, knotted trunks of wisteria rose up on either side of them as they walked, tangling overhead in a clash of green and purple. Beneath her bare feet, Buffy could feel the thick green grass, the blades pushing pleasingly between her toes with every step. 

It was enchanting. Almost like a garden from a childhood fairy tale, full of beauty and magic and peace. Buffy felt giddy with the pleasure of it. A feeling that only intensified as they emerged from the wisteria-covered walkway into the garden proper. 

It was far bigger than Buffy had first assumed. Circular in shape, it was surrounded by dark wooden walls that stretched upwards for several metres. A myriad of doors and windows were scattered across them at irregular intervals. They peeked out from beneath the climbers, trellises and hedgerows that almost entirely obscured the walls, a patchwork of dark red wood and glass. Above the walls rose a large, cavernous ceiling made of what appeared to be highly polished marble. Its surface danced with a perfect imitation of the afternoon sky; white wisps of clouds meandered slowly across it, floating on a haze of brilliant blue. In the very centre hung a large golden orb, so bright it almost hurt to look at it. 

“Wow,” breathed Buffy, tilting her head to the ceiling, eyes wide as she took it all in. 

“Quite,” said Giles, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “It’s enchanted to mimic the weather outside. I sincerely doubt you’ll ever see anything of this ilk again.”

“It’s amazing.”

“Even more so at sunset.” 

With an appreciative sigh, Buffy tore her eyes away from the ceiling, intent on taking in the rest of the garden. 

It stretched out before her in a great carpet of green. In the very centre sat a large circular pond, its crystal clear surface reflecting the light of the faux sun. Small white pebbles decorated its edge, contrasting beautifully with the green and purple water lilies that rose gracefully from its depths. 

Spiralling out from the pond were four sets of neat flowerbeds, filled to the brim with blood-red poppies, large white daisies and a number of exceedingly pretty flowers Buffy couldn’t name. Meandering pathways, each bordered by box and scattered with smooth, dark grey pebbles, wound their way across the garden, leading to the many doors set deep within the wooden walls. Rhododendron bushes littered the landscape, each bursting violently with a multitude of vibrantly coloured blooms. Great beds of lavender and deep red roses circled trees heavy with blossom. And, in amongst a thicket of particularly wild-looking bushes, she was sure she could see the beginnings of a wooden summerhouse. 

“How is this even real?” asked Buffy, her voice filled with awe. “I mean it’s just a cottage sort of thingy. How can this even be here?”

“The cottage you saw as you came in is merely an illusion. The product of a rather ingenious cloaking spell. Something to keep the postman from becoming too suspicious.” Giles smiled at her, shoving his hands deep into his trouser pockets. “What we’re actually standing in is a far larger building. Almost the size of a cathedral, actually. The rooms run along the outer walls, with the garden in the centre.” 

“Neat-o.”

A small huff of amusement met her response. He turned to face her, peering at her over the top of his glasses. Buffy shivered at the expression that graced his handsome features. There was a heat in his eyes, his smile almost predatory. She’d never seen him look like that before. It was exciting. 

“Lets begin, shall we?” 

He took a few steps backwards, casting an appraising glance over her form. She felt a frisson of anticipation run through her. “The dress. Remove it.”

Buffy obeyed, grasping the hem and drawing it up over her head. She set it at her feet, neatly folded, and returned to her former position, her hands clasped behind her back. She felt her nipples harden beneath the soft lace of her bra. Her stomach tensed in anticipation as she watched his eyes dip to take in the sight. 

“Now the bra.”

She complied without hesitation, dropping the garment on top of her neatly folded dress.

Giles hummed softly in appreciation. His hands still in his pockets, he began to circle her still form, his footsteps almost silent upon the grass. It reminded her of the time they had spent training together, back in the Magic Box. Only now, instead of analysing her fighting form, he was analysing her physical one. 

She heard him come to a halt behind her. Buffy bit her lip, almost nervous now that he was out of her sight. 

“Where do you like to be touched, Anne?” His words were silky, almost like a caress. She shivered at the sound of her not-name as it fell from his lips. It was so odd, pretending to be someone else, yet strangely exciting. Liberating. She felt almost giddy with the perverse thrill of it. 

From behind her came the sharp sound of hastily indrawn breath. She felt the heat of him against her back as he stepped closer. “Answer me.”

“My back.” Buffy’s eyes fluttered shut as she felt his fingers trail down her spine, her skin sparking with electricity at his feather light touch. “Oh god.”

“I want you to remain silent unless I ask you a question,” he said, his palms smoothing over her shoulder blades. A small hum of appreciation rumbled in his chest as he felt her skin begin to tighten with gooseflesh at his touch. “Where else?”

“My neck.”

Buffy felt his hands sweep up to her collarbone. She shivered as he began to trace the bones of her clavicle with the tips of his fingers. She flinched as she felt his mouth against her neck, the press of his lips against her delicate skin sending a shock of white-hot desire though her. Her knickers were soaked and he’d barely even begun. She pressed her legs together trying to ease the ache. 

Without warning, Giles bit down on her neck hard. A sharp pain shot through her, turning slowly to intense pleasure as he began to soothe the bite with his tongue. She moaned, tipping her head back to allow him better access. 

“Fuck,” she gasped as she felt him suck gently upon the bruised skin. At the sound, he released her neck with a wet pop. 

“Silence, Anne. I will not remind you again,” his breath was hot against her ear, his voice low and dangerous. Buffy swallowed a moan at the flash of arousal she felt at his rebuke, biting her lip so hard she almost drew blood. 

Giles swept his hands across her shoulders and down her back in a firm caress. Buffy felt her skin tingle as he pressed chaste kisses across her shoulder blades. Each place his mouth touched burned with a fiery heat; it felt as though his lips had branded her, leaving possessive little marks over her perfect skin. His palms pressed into the soft flesh of her waist as he kissed his way down her back. Upon reaching her tailbone, he brought his hands back up, his long, sleek fingers trailing up over her ribs. His mouth followed suit and he traced the valley of her spine in one long, torturous lick. She shivered as she felt her skin cool deliciously under the wet trail his tongue had left. 

Buffy gasped as she felt Giles roughly palm her breasts. Such a contrast from the slow, almost tender caresses before, this touch was brutal, savage. Her head dropped back, her breath coming in rapid pants and he dragged his hands across her flesh. His fingers circled the stiff little peaks of her nipples. 

“Do you like that?” he said, his voice low and seductive as he pressed his lips to the skin of her neck. She could feel his smile against her skin as he spoke.

“Yes,” she breathed. She arched her back, pushing her breasts more firmly into his grasp. He gave them a rough squeeze before removing his hands. A low groan of frustration blossomed deep in her throat at the loss. 

“Yes, what?” Buffy gasped as he punctuated his question with a bite, his teeth nipping the soft skin of her neck. She felt herself growing wetter at sensation, the sting of his ministrations further heightening her desire.

“Yes, Rip.”

“Good girl,” he said, rewarding her with his touch once more, his fingertips circling her aching nipples. Buffy felt a bolt of arousal at his words, the phrasing just skirting the edge of kinky. 

Oh yes, not quite vanilla was definitely doing it. Buffy couldn’t remember when she’d last felt so aroused. A small part of her brain, the only part that still seemed to be in fully working order, wondered if she’d enjoy other things too. Kinkier things. 

She stifled moan at the thought. 

After what seemed like an eternity of exquisite torment, Giles’ hands began to move lower. Her eyes fluttered shut as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her knickers and drew them slowly down her thighs. Once they reached her knees, he let go, his hands coming to rest upon her waist, his fingers digging gently into the soft flesh. 

“Kneel,” he said, his voice low and rough. 

Buffy felt her internal muscles clench at the sound of desire so evident in his voice. She sunk shakily to her knees, his grip at her waist guiding her into the exact position he wanted. 

“Good. Now place your hands flat on the floor in front of you.” He smoothed his palms down the inside of her thighs as she complied, gently pushing them wider. “Do not move from this position.”

Buffy shuddered as she felt the tips of his fingers brush lightly against her sex. Barely there, teasing her with ghost of a caress. Her fingertips dug into the grass beneath her hands. The sweet scent of honeysuckle and jasmine hit her as she gasped. It was a heady sensation. 

Two fingers plunged suddenly into her wet heat. A strangled moan escaped her lips as she felt him fill her, her back arching as pleasure knifed into her abdomen. 

“I believe I told you to be silent,” he said as he removed his fingers from her cunt.

She felt his hand caress her backside, the two fingers that had been inside her trailing wetly across her left arse cheek. She bit her lip, her internal muscles tensing as she desperately tried to relieve the ache the loss of his fingers had caused. Her head dropped between her shoulders and she took a deep, shuddering breath. 

A low chuckle emanated from behind her. “Feeling a little frustrated?”

“Yes,” she hissed, the muscles of her back contracting as the tension built between her legs.

“Then you should have obeyed my instructions, Anne.” His hands gripped the round curve of her arse as he spoke, the tiny pricks of pain where his nails dug into her peachy flesh sending sparks of pleasure deep to her core. “Tell me, do you think you have suffered enough for your infraction?”

“Yes.” The words left her mouth in a moan.

“Yet I remain unconvinced, ” he said silkily. 

She heard him shift behind her, the soft whisper of his clothing filling the air. His fingers traced circles and spirals across her lower back and down her thighs, his touch light and teasing. A low growl of frustration rumbled in her chest at the ache his teasing ministrations elicited within her. 

No sooner had the noise left her lips, she felt his mouth upon her. Buffy bit back a moan as she felt his tongue against her, drawing up across her sex in one long, torturous lick. His fingertips traced the crease of her thighs, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Slowly, they moved over her centre, lightly circling her entrance as his mouth latched onto her throbbing clit. He swirled his tongue over the sensitive bud before releasing it, his fingers moving back to the crease of her thighs as he drew his tongue up across her sex once more. 

He kept up his teasing rhythm until she began to shake, alternating between slow, agonising licks and barely-there touches. Tears of frustration pricked at her eyes, her arousal now almost excruciating in its intensity. She could barely breathe, barely think, her mind focused on nothing but the sweet release his careful caresses held just out of her reach. 

“And now?” he said, teasing her entrance with the tip of his finger. “Do you think you have suffered enough now?”

He didn’t give her time to answer. Instead, he thrust two fingers into her, his clever mouth suddenly hot against her clit once more. The feeling of him deep inside her sent her careering over the edge, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave. A silent scream left her lips as she contracted around him. She felt his fingers scissor within her, the sensation pushing her higher. Too high. She felt her brain begin to shut down with the sheer pleasure of her release. Her arms gave out beneath her and she fell to the ground, her mind blissfully blank. 

She felt almost boneless, riding the endorphin rush of her retreating orgasm. She tried to push herself up onto her forearms, but they didn’t seem to be cooperating. Neither did anything else, now that she thought about it. Not that it mattered. She felt pleasantly numb. A smile curled the edges of her lips and she let out a contented hum. 

A few moments later, Buffy felt two strong hands on her shoulders, pushing her back upright and into a kneeling position. Lazily she opened her eyes, Giles’ face swimming into focus before her. He looked curiously calm, still fully dressed and bespectacled; the only hint of what he’d done to her a glistening wetness on the first two fingers of his left hand. She shivered at the sheer kinkiness of it, at the thought of him all buttoned up and respectable whilst he made her writhe with pleasure. 

Giles watched as her eyes darted back and forth between his slick fingers and his face. The tiniest of smiles curled at the edge of his lips, so small she almost missed it. He quirked an eyebrow in question, raising his left hand to her lips. His eyes fluttered closed as she took his wet fingers into her mouth. She could taste herself on his skin, the salty sweetness of her excitement. Lazy tendrils of desire curled low in her belly at the memory of where those fingers had been, they way they had caressed her, filled her. Slowly she swirled her tongue around them, her lips dragging against his skin as she did so. It was gloriously perverse, sucking his fingers as she would his cock. Fucking him, Giles, her former Watcher, Mr Repressed, with her mouth. 

A low groan escaped her lips. His eyes snapped open at the sound, his gaze locked on hers, pupils blown wide. She shivered as he slowly withdrew his fingers from her mouth with a wet pop. Her breath hitched as he drew closer. He was going to kiss her. Her heart hammered against her chest at the thought of his lips against hers, hot and wet. Buffy closed her eyes, revelling in the heat of him, the anticipation. 

But it never came. Instead she heard the click of a lock, felt the chain slide from around her neck. Her eyes snapped open only to find that Giles was no longer knelt in front of her. She turned, her face creasing into a frown of confusion as she searched for him amongst the greenery. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the dark shape of his retreating form. 

“Giles?” she shouted towards him. He didn’t turn. 

“I usually take dinner at seven,” he said, his tone light, friendly. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

Buffy watched as he disappeared through a small red door hidden behind the overhanging branches of a weeping willow. She collapsed back against the grass, breathing heavily. 

“Oh.”

Buffy swallowed. What exactly had she gotten herself into?


	4. Chapter 4

It was night when Buffy awoke. The golden light of the faux sun had transformed into that of a beautiful silver, gently illuminating the darkened garden. Above her the enchanted ceiling shone with stars, the tiny pinpricks of twinkling white light clustered in perfect imitation of the constellations. All around her she could hear the soft whisper of the plants as they swayed in the breeze. The air was warm, pleasantly so, filled with the sweet scent of moonflower and evening primrose. 

Buffy sighed heavily. She stretched, the soft cracks and pops of her sleep-stiffened joints filling the night air, luxuriating in the feel of the soft grass against her naked skin. With a small sigh, she pushed herself up onto her feet and went in search of her clothing. 

She found it neatly folded a few feet away from her resting place. She picked it up, noting with surprise that it had been freshly laundered. The scent of soap and clean cotton filled the air as she began to dress. 

“Hello.”

Buffy jumped, startled at the sudden appearance of her former Watcher beside her. She turned towards him, pulling her dress swiftly down over her head, feeling inexplicably shy. Giles gave her a wry smile, his hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets. 

“Hey,” she replied, blushing.

“How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good.” She grinned at him. “Some might even say amazing. Thanks for that. You know, for the sex and the laundry and letting me be here and stuff.”

Giles chuckled. “Don’t mention it. I’ve prepared dinner, if you fancy it. Just sandwiches, I’m afraid.” He gestured back in the direction he had come, pointing down a winding path bordered with a large, silvery hedge. “I wasn’t entirely sure when you’d wake up.” 

Buffy patted the creases from her dress, a skip in her step as she followed him.

“You’re a god, do you know that?” she said, falling into step beside him as they made their way towards what was presumably the location of the kitchen. She frowned, a sudden thought popping into her mind. “Giles, I wanted to ask, why didn’t you, you know?”

“Why didn’t I what?” he replied, puzzled.

“Fuck me?”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Oh. Well I, ah, didn’t think you’d be interested.”

Buffy quirked an eyebrow at his confession. “Trust me, interest piqued.”

“Then I will take it into consideration for next time,” he said, a small, oddly shy smile about his lips.

“Next time?”

Giles opened his mouth to reply when he was interrupted by a loud buzz. Casting an apologetic look in Buffy’s direction, he fished into his trouser pocket and pulled out a mobile phone, answering it with a frown. 

“Hello… Sorry, Andrew, but you’ve caught me at a rather inconvenient time… No, I understand… Yes… I’ll be there in a few hours… Good bye.”

“Bad news?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said, hastily shoving the phone back in his pocket. “I have to return to London. You’re more than welcome to stay here. I’ve made up the spare bedroom for you.”

“Thanks, Giles, but I think I’ll head back with you. I doubt it’ll be long before I get a summons too,” she said. She tentatively placed a hand upon his arm. “We’ll do this again, right?”

He flashed her a wicked grin. “Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two in the Sanctuary Series coming Oct 2016.


End file.
